Through the Night
by bingblot
Summary: A one-shot post-ep to 7x15 "Reckoning." After their experiences taking on Tyson and Nieman, Castle and Beckett help each other make it through the night. Spoilers ahead!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I could never have been so mean to Castle and Beckett.

Author's Note: Adding to what I'm sure will be 500 post-eps for 7x15, "Reckoning," because I had to write something and I couldn't get Castle's face at a certain pivotal scene in the episode (that should become clear in the fic) out of my head. Spoilers ahead!

**Through the Night**

The first time, Castle startled awake with tears in his eyes and a scream clogging his throat. "Kate!"

"Castle. Castle, I'm here."

His breath was coming too fast, his chest aching as if his ribs had been cracked, but he turned his head sharply and saw her—Kate—the pale shadow of her so familiar, so dear face as she looked at him. And he felt some semblance of sanity, of calm, beginning to seep back into him.

She was here. She was safe. Her hand was reassuringly solid as it rested on his chest, her body warming his side.

It was too dim in their room for him to really see her face, let alone her expression, but his mind easily filled in her concerned expression as she asked, quietly, "A nightmare?"

"I—you were shot," he blurted out unthinkingly, his brain still too foggy with remembered terror and heartbreak to even try to filter his words. He heard her intake of breath and then he was crying, ragged sobs tearing their way from his chest. He'd thought he'd lost her. He'd thought he'd lost her—and yet again, it hit him with all the force of a blow to his gut that he couldn't bear to imagine life without her.

"Oh, Castle…" He felt her arm go around him and he abruptly turned, burying his face in the curve where her neck met her shoulder, as he cried.

A small corner of him retained enough coherence to think that he shouldn't be doing this, that she was the one who had suffered the worst ordeal, that he should be comforting her, not crying like a baby into her shoulder. But for the moment, he couldn't stop the tears, the heart-stopping seconds when he'd seen the fake Kate being riddled with bullets in the trap Tyson had set playing through his mind again and again, only this time in his dream, it wasn't the fake Kate at all but Kate herself being shot over and over. A shudder racked his body at the mental image and he clutched her tighter.

It was a few minutes before the tears stopped, before he became conscious of the sound of her soft, comforting murmurs, but he didn't move, didn't release her just yet. He stayed where he was, breathing in the familiar scent of her—of cherries and the indefinable scent that was just her—the feel of her hair pressed against his cheek, the warmth of her against him. Let himself soak in the reality of the _life_ of her against him.

But eventually, finally, he stirred, lifting his head.

"I'm—I'm sorry," he managed to say, suddenly belatedly conscious of how he'd just broken down. "Did I wake you?"

She shook her head just once, a sharply negative jerk of her head. "No, I… I can't sleep." She paused and then added in what he could tell was a valiant attempt to sound more like herself, more Beckett and less Kate, "I was watching you sleep instead."

At that moment, he thought he would willingly give up everything he had to be able to make some sort of quip about creepy staring, but he couldn't. The past couple days had excoriated his emotions too much, his heart still bleeding and raw, his ability to be humorous burned to ashes in the searing flames of his terror and his heartbreak. He knew himself too well to think it would last permanently or even for very long; he even prided himself on it, on still being able to be optimistic and silly and humorous even in the face of all the darkness that was the reality of dealing with murder on a daily basis. But for now, he didn't have it in him to make light of anything.

"Kate…" He drew her back down to rest against him, almost cradling her against him, both his arms around her.

He was never going to let her go, he thought, without the slightest sense of hyperbole. He was never going to leave her alone again. Never letting her out of his sight again.

She settled against him with a sigh, her head finding its habitual spot on his shoulder, one of her legs tucked between his.

They lay there in silence for a while—he wasn't sure how long—as he stared up at the ceiling and just enjoyed the fact that he could feel the steady cadence of her heart beating, could hear the soft sound of her breathing. For a moment, his brain processed the sounds so he heard it as the steady beeping of a heart monitor, from when she'd been shot before, from endless hours spent in the hospital, but then he mentally shook himself, returned to the present. Kate was _fine_; she hadn't been shot again. She was fine—and only hoped that at some point, the repeated reassurance would sink in to his mind and heart.

"I keep seeing her face, Castle," Kate finally said, her voice soft enough that even in the quiet of the night, he could barely hear it.

"I know," he told her quietly, turning his head so he could press a kiss to her hair.

"I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see her face."

He forcibly suppressed a shudder—he didn't want her to feel his instinctive reaction at the thought.

"Castle…"

"Mm?"

"How did you—how did you manage to fall asleep? You said—you said you see his face when you close your eyes too. How did you fall asleep?"

"I thought about you," he answered simply. "I pictured you instead, visualized some of my favorite memories of you."

She tightened her arms around him a little. "What memories, Castle? Talk to me, tell me about them."

_Oh, Kate… _He turned to press his lips against her hair, buying himself an extra moment. Love and tenderness and poignant happiness filled his chest and clogged his throat. He knew his Kate, knew what she wanted, what she was asking. She had admitted to him a couple times that she loved the sound of his voice, with that soft smile that was a mix of shyness and a little self-consciousness that usually appeared whenever Kate made an uncharacteristically sentimental admission. (He adored that smile; Kate was so rarely shy and it made the brief glimpses of shyness, her well-hidden, well-protected tender heart, all the more precious to him.) She had asked him before to read to her or tell her a story to help her relax and fall asleep and he knew it was what she wanted now.

It was Kate's way, he knew. He didn't kid himself that Kate would have escaped her ordeal, what she'd had to do, with no lasting effects. The look on her face when they'd finally found her—more than that, the way she had stayed willingly tucked inside the circle of his arm from the moment they'd found her all through the long hour in which she'd been checked over by the EMT's to when they had finally made it back to the precinct and after they'd left the precinct told him everything. Normally, Kate—Beckett—would never have done such a thing when surrounded by other cops as they had been for every moment. Beckett almost never showed weakness in public; he knew that even Espo and Ryan could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times they'd seen Beckett appear anything less than stoic. Tonight, though, she had stayed next to him. When they had left the building where she'd been held, come into sight of the rest of the cops swarming the place, he had—very reluctantly—been on the verge of dropping his arm, well aware of Beckett's ways, but she had grabbed his hand, pressed herself more closely against his side. A small gesture but from Beckett, it had been the equivalent of sky-writing a declaration that she needed him, that she wasn't okay.

And now this. He knew she was exhausted, drained, but more than that, he knew she wanted to sleep, forget about it for a little while, get through one night and then face the next day. Putting one foot in front of the other and getting through each day, putting in the time, as she'd once told him. But now, this time, she was letting him help, asking him for help.

He swallowed back his emotions and began speaking, quietly. Even to his own ears, his voice was a little husky, unsteady, with emotion at first, but he ignored that and went on, closing his eyes to better visualize the memories, forcing everything else out of his mind but the thought of her, of them, in some of their happiest moments.

"I thought about our first walk on the beach in the Hamptons. I was a little surprised that you immediately slipped off your shoes because somehow I hadn't imagined you to be a feel-the-sand-between-your-toes kind of person. But then you took off your shoes and wiggled your toes a little as your feet sank into the sand. I remember thinking it was a little unfair because even your toes were pretty."

He sensed her eyes closing, felt the way some of the tension began to leave her body.

"So there we were, both of us barefoot, walking or strolling really on the sand, holding hands, and I remember thinking that I wasn't sure if I'd ever felt happier than I was right then. To be with you there at the Hamptons, to be holding your hand, to see you smiling at me so openly, to feel so certain that you loved me. It was one of those perfect moments that come along every so often in life and I thought I wanted it to last forever."

His voice softened as he found himself falling into the memory, the story, as he always did, his mind automatically seeking out the way to put this story of theirs into words, focusing on the story and nothing else.

"The sunset was so beautiful that night. Aside from not wanting to face the open ocean, I always wanted the private beach to face west to get the best view of the sunsets and that night, it seemed like the sunset was putting on a special show just for you. It was a blaze of colors, of pink and orange and red and purple, and I looked over at you and I forgot all about admiring the sunset. You were so beautiful that day, Kate, the way the sun's glow added color to your skin, lit up your face, brought out every spark of green and gold and amber in your eyes. I must have been staring at you like an idiot because you looked over at me and laughed and then you stepped in close, so close that you started to look a little blurry before I closed my eyes, and then you kissed me and I thought that it was already the best weekend of my life."

Their story—his and Kate's story—in spite of all they'd suffered, it was still, would always be, his favorite story. It was an oddly comforting thought, even that night after some of the worst days of his life, some of the worst moments of his life. He still had their story to tell and as long as he had Kate, he knew he'd never run out of stories to tell.

"Mm. Tell me another story, Castle," she murmured. He could hear in her voice, for the first time that night, that she was relaxed, had managed to find some measure of peace. One of his hands stroked her hair slowly, in the way he knew she found soothing.

This was helping. Comforting her, calming her—and, at the same time, comforting him.

And so he went on.

He talked about the way they'd danced at Ryan's wedding reception, the time they had gone to see _Forbidden Planet_ together at the Angelika, the way they had essentially crashed the Faircroft Winter Formal, the re-do of their first Valentine's Day together with his second gift. Some of his favorite memories of her, although he found himself avoiding any stories from the precinct without even consciously deciding to do so. He talked for longer than he could ever remember talking for such an extended length of time without any interruption or response. He talked until his throat was dry, his voice getting a little hoarse and he shifted into whispering, partly to save his voice but also because he sensed in the added weight of her body against him, the way her hand was lax against his chest, that she was, slowly, falling asleep.

His Kate. Always his, just as he was hers.

And she was safe now. They were both safe now.

Safe and together—and he knew that they would be fine.

Beside him, Kate stirred a little in her sleep before stilling again as he smoothed his hand down her hair.

He felt warm and relaxed and at peace and he thought he would probably fall asleep in fairly short order himself.

But before he did, he thought there was a little more he would say and hope that the words, the sound of his voice, would accompany her into her sleep, keep her from having any nightmares. He could only hope.

In a whisper, not wanting to disturb her, he recited from memory the beautiful poem by Neruda, that Kate had told him once was one of her favorites. (He had learned the poem by heart after Kate's confession.)

"_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, _

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. _

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, _

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_

_But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; _

_Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, _

_Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. _

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._

_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; _

_So I love you because I know no other way than this: _

_Where I does not exist, nor you, _

_So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, _

_So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."_

And he fell asleep.

The second time, Castle jerked awake with a strangled gasp of horror, the image of Dr. Nieman standing over Kate's bloodied body lying on that pseudo-operating table bludgeoning his mind.

He turned to Kate's side of the bed to find that it was empty.

Panic flared fast and sharp, twisting his gut, as he bolted upright. "Kate!"

The door to the en suite bathroom opened immediately and Kate appeared. "I'm here, Castle."

Oh thank God.

He stared at her, his eyes practically devouring the sight of her, whole, unbloodied, alive. Let the sight of her calm his breathing and his heart rate, assuring his brain that she was fine. She was safe.

"Castle?"

"I—I woke up and you were gone," was all he could blurt out.

"I woke up too," she offered quietly.

He belatedly woke up to the realization that there was something off about her tone. "Are you okay?"

He saw her shudder and then as if his question had somehow breached the dam, she flicked off the light in the bathroom and crossed the room in two quick steps and almost flung herself across the bed towards him. He caught her, closing his arms around her as she buried her face in his chest, realizing with a spike of dismay that she was actually trembling a little.

Oh god. Oh Kate.

Whatever had woken her up had to be terrible. Kate had nightmares—they both did—but it took a _lot_ to affect her so strongly. This was Kate, his indomitable Kate whose strength still amazed him every single day.

"Kate?" he asked carefully.

"Just… hold me, Castle."

As if he was ever going to let her go. He tightened his arms around her, curling his body around hers as much as possible, as he murmured soothing nothings into her ear. Assuring her that he was there with her, that she was fine, that they were both safe, that he wasn't going anywhere, that she wasn't alone.

It was a long, terrible, heart-wrenching few minutes before her trembling subsided. She didn't stir, only clutched him a little tighter.

He waited, worried, mentally debated if he should ask. Even now, in spite of everything, Kate didn't always want to talk about her nightmares and he didn't know if she would want to talk about it tonight of all nights, after what she'd been through. He didn't want to push her but at the same time, he knew that sometimes she needed him to ask, as if somehow his asking was all she needed to get past her automatic, instinctive reticence.

"Kate?" he finally ventured, gently, not quite asking outright but not quite not asking either.

"I needed to wash my hands," she stated after another few minutes.

Castle frowned a little, confused. It wasn't really like Kate to talk about irrelevancies. Subtext was one thing but pointless talking was not really Kate's style. He was the one more likely to avoid difficult subjects by talking nonsense about anything and everything. Which meant… the hand-washing wasn't irrelevant.

"I dreamed…" she began again quietly, her voice disturbingly emotionless. "I was back in that room with her and it all happened again. Dr. Nieman lifted the scalpel and came closer and I grabbed her hand and we struggled and I… I stabbed her."

Castle flinched. All the emotion, all the pain, that had been absent from her voice before was back, was poured into the last three words.

"I stabbed her. I had to. And she fell." She spoke in an oddly staccato fashion, short bursts of words and then too-long pauses in between the sentences.

She let out a shuddering breath that ended on something like a sob. "And then… I looked down and it wasn't Dr. Nieman at all. It was… it was my mother and… and there was so much blood and my mom's blank eyes were just staring up at me and it was my mom's blood on my hands and…"

Her breath and her words were beginning to come too fast and he cut off the flood of increasingly panicked words by gently turning her face back into his chest, cupping her cheek and tangling his fingers in her hair. "Sssh, Kate," he murmured soothingly, helplessly. "Ssh, it's okay. It was a nightmare."

He tightened his arms around her, pressing his cheek against her hair, and closed his eyes against the sting of more tears, but this time they were tears for Kate's suffering. He should have known this would be the problem. He had known that having to kill Nieman would haunt Kate; Kate was always haunted by the deaths she saw, let alone the ones she was forced to cause. But a stabbing. Stabbing deaths were the hardest for Kate, because of what had happened to her mother. He should have known that, more than having to kill Nieman, the _way_ she'd had to kill Nieman would haunt Kate.

No wonder she had needed to wash her hands.

A tiny corner of his mind spoke up, quoting Mac—the Scottish play: "_Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hands?_"

He pushed the thought aside. He didn't know how to help her, didn't know how to comfort her in this. (He made a mental note to ask Kate if she wanted to call Dr. Burke—but that would be for later.)

She stirred and sniffed a little. "I've had to shoot people before on the job," she said quietly.

He bit back the automatic "I know" rising to his lips. She wasn't telling him something she didn't think he knew.

"But I've never… never stabbed anyone before."

He suddenly remembered what Kate had said to him when he'd rejoined her after Raglan had been shot. _It's different when it happens right in front of you, close enough to watch the lights go out. _

That was the difference between a shooting and a stabbing. Shooting was generally killing from a distance. Stabbing was killing from up close—close enough to feel the reaction of the body, to feel the flesh give way to the force of the blow, to see the shock in the person's eyes. Close enough to see the lights go out.

Oh Kate…

His heart broke all over again at what she'd been through, what she'd been forced to do to save her own life.

She was so strong and he loved her strength. He had once called her his woman of steel and she'd given him one of her looks, quirking her eyebrow at him, and he'd edited himself, joked that she was the woman of adamantium and she'd laughed at that. But sometimes he had to wonder how much more she would be forced to endure, how many more times she would need to draw on her reservoir of strength—and what would happen if she ever hit the bottom of the reservoir and ran out.

He caught one of her hands in his and lifted it to his lips, pressed a kiss into her palm, her hand automatically curving so her fingers caressed his cheek. Her deceptively slender, capable hands. Hands that had killed, yes, when forced to do so but also hands that could be amazingly tender.

He swallowed hard before he managed to croak, "I'm sorry, Kate. I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For not finding you sooner, for not figuring out what Tyson and Nieman had planned earlier. For not…"

She stirred, her hand coming up to cup his cheek again, her thumb lightly pressing against his lips, silencing him. "No, Rick. It's not your fault, you know that, right? And I knew you'd come and that… helped. It kept me going, made me stronger, because I knew I had to come back to you."

"I don't know how to help you with this, Kate. I don't know what to say or do to make you feel better."

She lifted her head to kiss him lightly and then settled her head against his shoulder, nestling against him again. "Keep holding me, Castle. That helps."

Keep holding her—that, he could do. He didn't know what else he could say or do—or if there was anything he could say or do that would mitigate the horror of what Kate had been forced to do. He didn't really think there was. There was a cost to taking a life, no matter the circumstances—as there should be—so he knew, with an aching understanding, that Nieman's death would haunt Kate, just as Dick Coonan's death did, in spite of everything. All he could do was hold her and promise, yet again, in the silence of his heart, that he would be there for her, no matter what she needed.

He doubted either of them was at all inclined to even try to go back to sleep—he knew he wasn't, not after the dreams that had come. So after a few minutes, he shifted back to lean against the headboard and then tugged her back against him, wrapping his arms around her again as he rested his cheek against her hair. Kept holding her, as she'd asked, and thought, not for the first time, that he would never get over being the person Kate turned to when she was vulnerable.

A measure of calm crept over him and he felt the tension that had been his constant companion since this whole thing had started begin to dissipate. As always, Kate's presence brought him peace. It was paradoxical. Kate had, from the first, made stories crowd into his mind, words clamoring to be written, and Kate herself had proven to be the most challenging, fascinating person he'd ever met and certainly being with her was never boring. But at the same time, somehow, Kate calmed him, steadied him, brought him peace. He'd always had a tendency to restlessness, his mind constantly churning, leaping around, building stories in his head, observing everything around him. Alexis and Kate were the only people he'd ever known who made his mind still, who focused his mind to the exclusion of all else.

Now, with Kate in his arms, he found peace again.

He glanced across to the window to see the faint gray beginnings of the dawn just beginning to lighten the darkness.

"When will Martha and Alexis be home?" Kate asked softly.

"Probably tomorrow night—I mean, tonight," he corrected himself since it was the morning after he'd spoken with Alexis. "Alexis said she'd text me their flight schedule."

"It'll be good to have them home. I want to see them."

"They want to see you too." Alexis's first words when he'd called her had been demanding to know if Kate was okay. It had sounded as if she'd been crying, he had heard soft murmurs in the background that he could guess were his mother comforting Alexis, and his heart had hurt all over again for his daughter and his mother.

"After they get home, maybe we could go somewhere, Kate," he suggested. "Get out of the city for a couple days." Gates had made it clear that she didn't want to see Kate anywhere near the precinct until the following week, which gave them five days. He wanted—and knew Alexis would want—to spend some time with him and Kate after the scare they'd just had but they could take a couple days.

"Mm, okay," she agreed quietly. "The Hamptons. It'll be quiet this time of year. It'll be peaceful there."

The Hamptons—where he'd disappeared from. He pushed the reminder aside. The thought of his disappearance stung more than usual after the past couple days but this was about Kate and of course, they had been back to the Hamptons since.

"The Hamptons it is."

"We can add another chapter of our story there, Castle."

He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I love our story."

"Me too, Castle."

She moved one of her hands to hold his and he turned it over to lace their fingers together.

He could hear in her voice that she was still not quite herself again, a thread of vulnerability lingering in her tone. But she was here with him, had turned to him, and somehow, he knew they would both be fine. They were safe, they were together, they would be happy. Still _were_ happy, in spite of everything.

Another comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the soft sound of their breathing, the noise of the city becoming slowly, gradually, louder as the city fully woke up outside.

Kate let out a soft, sighing breath. "It's morning."

He turned his head to look at her face in the soft, diffuse light of the very early morning sun slipping in through the blinds. She still looked pale, tired, shadows under her eyes from the mostly-sleepless night and all the trauma she had been through. But she turned her head up to meet his eyes and managed a faint smile.

His brave, beautiful Kate.

He bent and kissed her softly. "Good morning, love," he whispered.

They had made it through the night.

_~The End~_

A/N 2: The poem is Poem XVII (I do not love you…) by Pablo Neruda. I wasn't planning on including the entire thing but in rereading it, it seemed too fitting not to include.

The quote Castle thinks of is from Act 2, Scene 2 of _Macbeth_.

On a more light-hearted note, I also just have to add that I am so glad that Castle's stint as a P.I. is finally over.

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author's Note: Apparently, I still wasn't done writing about what happened in "Reckoning."

**Getting Through the Day After**

Castle blamed himself.

He had relaxed too much, let his guard down, allowed himself to push aside the memory of just how much Kate had been through.

A day spent with Kate had done more to restore himself to something approaching normal than even he would have expected, although he supposed it made sense. Kate tended to have a calming effect on him and a full day spent with Kate—or more specifically, a full day where he hadn't spent more than a handful of minutes out of Kate's sight and indeed where the bulk of the day was spent with Kate not just in sight but touching him in some way—would never not be a good day.

They had spent the day quietly.

They had talked, some, about the past couple days. He had told her the story of what he'd done, the way he'd gone after Tyson, and the plan he, Espo, and Ryan had finally come up with. She had not said much in response to his story of what he'd done to Tyson. She had only asked, quietly, "Would you have shot him?" He had answered that he wouldn't have killed Tyson, then, because he'd known they needed Tyson alive in order to find her. He had left unsaid that if it hadn't been for that, if he'd thought they could find her at the time without Tyson alive, he would have killed Tyson in a heartbeat. Had left unsaid that he had wanted to kill Tyson. Still wanted to kill Tyson, when he thought about what Tyson had done. Her only response had been, "I did kill her." And then she'd started to cry, silent tears sliding down her face, and he had cradled her tighter against him and that had been the end of their conversation over what had happened.

After that, they had left their bedroom, had coffee and some breakfast, before settling on the couch.

They had watched "_Temptation Lane_" for longer than he cared to think about, until he'd felt as if his brain might actually start leaking out of his ears at the melodrama of it, the ridiculousness of the plots and the dialogue. But it had worked. He had felt Kate's increasing relaxation, seen it in the way she started smiling and even, after a while, laughing at the show. (And he had decided in the sudden spike of relief and happiness on hearing her laugh for the first time that morning that he would happily watch "_Temptation Lane_" all day if that was what it took.)

But eventually he had asked—okay, possibly wheedled and begged—if they could watch something else instead. Kate had agreed with a smile and they had switched to watching "_Star Trek_" episodes instead.

The lazy morning spent watching TV had done the trick and when lunch time had rolled around, Kate had been largely herself again, aside from the lingering tiredness visible in the shadows beneath her eyes. But her eyes had regained most of their usual spark and—best of all—she had found her humor again, flashes of her usual snark and banter appearing.

He wasn't sure what it said about him that seeing her roll her eyes at him in her characteristic way had probably done more than anything else could have to make him feel like himself again.

His Beckett was back—and that was all he needed.

By the time dinner rolled around, he had almost succeeded in completely pushing the events of the past few days to the back of his mind. Had stopped being quite so cautious with Beckett. Everything was fine, back to normal.

He was jokingly complaining about how much he was sure his mother and Alexis would have spent on this latest shopping spree of theirs as they made dinner.

Beckett laughed as she busied herself opening a bottle of wine. "Don't be silly, Castle. They had less than half a day to shop and Alexis is sensible."

"Yes, Alexis is, but you've obviously not been shopping with my mother," he returned. "Martha Rodgers doesn't believe things like credit limits apply to her." He got some chicken out of the refrigerator, thinking to toss it into the stir-fry he was making with vegetables and pasta, and pulled out a knife to slice the chicken up.

Her sudden intake of breath was the first indication he had that something was wrong and then he heard the clatter as she dropped the bottle opener.

He turned to her. "Beckett?" And froze. Oh god.

She had lost all color, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants, as she stared, her eyes wide and unfocused, her hands trembling.

"Kate."

He dropped the knife, quickly rinsing his hands and turning off the stove. He didn't care about the food but starting a fire wouldn't help anything.

"Kate?" he began gently. "It's okay. I'm here. Just breathe, Kate." He reached out slowly, his hands brushing her arms—but then she flinched and then abruptly dropped, as if she were a puppet that had its strings cut, curling into a defensive ball.

_Oh god. _

In some corner of his mind that retained some coherence, he thought that being stabbed would have hurt less.

Kate had flinched—from him.

The thought tore at his heart but he pushed it aside, falling to his knees on the floor in front of her.

Her breath was still coming too fast, she was still trembling. Moving slowly, cautiously, he slipped his arms around her, embracing her as gently as if she were made out of spun crystal and would shatter if jostled. She might have flinched but he couldn't not hold her, couldn't not try to comfort her, but he kept his arms loose, as unconfining, as unthreatening—he mentally flinched from the thought—as he could.

"Ssh, Kate," he murmured soothingly, forcing words out past the obstruction in his throat. "It's okay. Just breathe, Kate. I've got you. I won't hurt you. It's okay. You're safe. Just breathe."

He wasn't sure how long it was before her breathing slowly began to even out. All he knew was that it felt like an eternity to him, an eternity in which it hurt for him to breathe—hell, he could almost swear it hurt for him to blink, everything hurt—as the memory, the moment of Kate flinching away from him played through his mind again and again.

Seeing Kate afraid, fragile, was painful. Knowing that now, Kate was, in some part of her, afraid of him was agonizing.

He'd threatened Tyson, had been on the verge of shooting Tyson, had come within seconds of murdering Tyson. Still wanted to kill Tyson when he remembered what the bastard had done. The evil sociopath had plotted and planned the kidnap and torture and death of his wife, his love, of _Kate_. He'd _wanted_ to kill Tyson, had told Espo to take his shot, knowing Tyson would die and he'd been glad of it.

What did that make him? A man some part of Kate feared, flinched away from.

He remembered the way she had drifted to sleep in his arms, to the sound of his voice, last night. Oh god, would she ever be able to sleep in his arms again now that she knew what he was capable of, what he had done? Kate, who valued life so much, who spent her life putting killers behind bars, who had _cried_ when she'd been forced to shoot the man who'd murdered her mother, who had cried again today over having been forced to kill Dr. Nieman who would otherwise have killed Kate.

It wasn't the first time he'd thought it but the words struck him with extra force at that moment. He didn't deserve Kate, wasn't good enough for her.

He'd always known that, hadn't he? But he loved her and he'd told himself he would be good for her, that he could be good enough for her, that he'd happily spend his entire life making her happy and maybe that would be enough. And then he'd disappeared on what was to have been their wedding day, disappeared and vanished without a trace or a word for two entire months, and he still didn't know why or what he had done over those two months or why he'd chosen to have his memories of those months erased from his mind. He had disappeared, he had broken her heart, even if he hadn't intended to and still didn't know why, and now he had taken a man's life. He had killed a man. Never mind that he hadn't pulled the trigger; he'd plotted for it to happen and known Espo would shoot to kill and had been glad of it.

Now Kate knew. And she had flinched from him.

Her breathing had begun to even out and he told himself he should let her go now. She'd flinched from him and he would never, could never, hold her if she didn't want it, if she was at all afraid of him.

"Ca—Castle?" she breathed, a little shakily.

"Yeah, Kate, I'm here," he murmured.

Slowly—it felt as if he had to individually order every muscle in his body to obey his mind's instruction to let her go, as if his body still wanted in spite of everything to hold on to this woman he loved more than anything, no matter what she wanted—he let his arms fall from around her. Her breathing was even again. She was no longer trembling. So he had to let her go.

She tipped forward to lean against him, her face finding his throat.

He gave in and wrapped his arms around her again, cradled her against him. He had to do it. He would have been more than human if he hadn't. The woman he loved and who loved him—even then, even if some part of her might not trust him, he knew she loved him—was leaning against him and there was no power on earth that could have kept him from embracing her at that moment.

"It—it was the knife," Kate admitted shakily after a moment.

He winced. "I know." As if her words, the indication that she was ready to talk about it, had unstopped the dam, words suddenly poured from his lips. "I'm sorry, Kate. I didn't think—I'm so sorry. I'd never ever hurt you, you know that, right? I wouldn't _ever_ hurt you." He choked a little. "Kate, you have to believe that I won't ever hurt you. You—please believe me. I wouldn't—"

"Castle," she interrupted him, lifting her head to stare at him. "what are you talking about?"

"You… you flinched, Kate, when I reached for you. You flinched from me," he said again, his voice cracking in spite of himself at the memory.

"Oh Castle," she sighed. "It wasn't you, was never about you. It—I saw the knife from the corner of my eye and I—I was back in that room seeing all her tools and she was coming towards me and I—" she broke off abruptly and then finished, a little unsteadily, "It was a flashback, Castle, and I… had a panic attack but it was never about you."

"I had him killed, Kate," he blurted out. "I wanted to kill him and I had him killed and I—I'm not sorry. I'm glad he's dead. I had him killed and I'm not sorry. What does that make me?"

"It makes you a man who loves me, a man who would do anything for the people he loves."

"Kate…"

He didn't know how she did it, how she could always reduce him, a man who made his living with words, to speechlessness, to never knowing what words to say.

"You're a good man, Castle, a good, kind man," she murmured, lifting her hand to bring his head down so she could kiss him, the lazy sweep of her tongue between his lips effectively clearing his brain of any thoughts at all except those related solely to her.

She ended the kiss slowly and shifted as she settled herself more snugly against him.

Still a little cautiously, he tightened his arms around her, cradling her in the circle of his body. He stroked a hand up and down her back, a steady, calming caress. "Are _you_ okay?" he asked quietly.

He felt her nod in a rather jerky motion against his shoulder.

"I hate this," she suddenly burst out. "I hate that I get flashbacks and panic attacks. I hate falling apart like this. It's not fair to you and I thought I was cured, better again and now I—"

"Kate, ssh," he interrupted her, cutting off her increasingly distraught flood of words, as he passed a caressing hand down the side of her face. "It's okay. It's fine. We'll be fine."

"But Castle, I made you think I was somehow afraid of you and you shouldn't have to—I shouldn't make you—"

"Kate, stop," he interrupted her again, pressing his thumb lightly over her lips. "I _love_ you, remember? I want to be with you, for better or worse. I've always wanted it. Don't you know what it means to me to know you trust me enough to let me see when you're vulnerable?"

"I do trust you," she mumbled into his shoulder. "But I don't want to be like this. I—I made you wait for so long so I could fix myself, so I could be whole, unbroken, for you. And here I'm still having panic attacks and going to pieces in our _kitchen_." She almost spat out the last word, as if the location added insult to injury.

He stopped her near-tearful words and soothed her by adding the slightest bit of pressure from his hand caressing her face. "Ssh, Kate, love," he murmured. "It's okay. I know you hate feeling like this but you know it doesn't change anything. You still amaze me with your strength—and your hotness," he added deliberately and was rewarded when she huffed a rather watery laugh. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "And maybe you are broken, but Kate, if you put it like that, we're both broken. And that's okay because I think, somehow, the broken pieces of us still fit together to make something whole, something better than either of us are apart." He did think that, he realized, even as the words were already leaving his mouth. They both had scars, were haunted in different ways by things that had happened to them, both had lingering insecurities and fears. But in the end, he honestly could not imagine spending life without her—his mainstay, his anchor, his wife. And he could be good enough for her because she believed he was, because she turned to him for support, for help.

"The broken pieces of us still fit together," she repeated quietly. "Anyone might think you're a writer or something."

He managed a slight smile, his heart lightening at the teasing words, so like his Kate, even if her voice was still imbued with uncharacteristic vulnerability. "It's going to be okay, Kate," he told her softly. "You'll get past the flashbacks and panic attacks just like you did before."

"No, it won't be like before," she contradicted him, her voice quiet but firm. "Because now I have you. I don't have to get through it alone."

Oh. He could swear his heart skipped a beat, actually stuttered in its actions. Oh Kate… He had one of his moments of being amazed, dumbstruck really, at how far they'd come, how far she'd come in the last few years. He remembered what he'd been like when they first met—a jackass who, beneath his carefully cultivated façade of shallow arrogance, had really been lonely. He remembered the prickly Detective, who'd been so guarded and so alone in her very guardedness. The Beckett who always insisted she was fine, the Beckett who had kept her heart, all the love and tenderness she was capable of, locked up and hidden inside the solid carapace of her independence. He knew it wasn't easy for her with all her instinctive, hard-won tendency to self-reliance, but now, she was here, leaning against him, letting him help her. And neither of them was alone, would ever be alone again to deal with whatever life might throw at them next.

He swallowed back the lump of emotion in his throat so he could speak and sound somewhat normal again. "You're not alone, Kate. You're stuck with me forever."

"Other way around, Castle. _You're_ the one that's stuck with _me_," she returned after a beat of silence a second too long to qualify as the usual push-and-pull quality of their teasing.

She wasn't quite herself but she was getting there so he responded to her rejoinder with as much of his usual humor as he could muster. "Are we really going to get into this argument, like a pair of conjoined twins who can't decide which of them is the more important half?"

She made a soft sound that was halfway between a snort and a laugh. "We aren't conjoined twins, Castle, that's ridiculous."

"No," he agreed. "We're just married." Except there was no "just" about it; being married to Kate was _everything_.

As if to punctuate the statement, his stomach chose to make itself heard and Kate laughed, one of her real laughs, so she sounded much more like herself.

"I think that means it's time to get some food," he decreed, pushing himself to his feet and trying not to wince as his knees creaked. He had to grimace at the stiffness in his back—damn it, he hated it when his body betrayed him like this. He caught Kate's look and knew she'd recognized the signs of his physical discomfort. He bent and took her hands, hauling her to her feet in one mostly smooth motion as if to make a point, to her and to himself, that he wasn't entirely decrepit yet. "Chinese?" he suggested.

"Sounds good to me, Castle."

He cleaned up the beginnings of their aborted dinner, carefully waiting until she was distracted by ordering their food before he cleaned and put away the knife that had caused all the problems tonight.

Dinner—eating Chinese delivery in the living room—managed to somewhat restore them both to a measure of equanimity again. It was so… normal… something they had done after countless cases, so many quiet evenings eating takeout both in the loft and back in her old apartment. They passed the cartons back and forth as they ate. She stole half of his egg roll, as she always did. (It was something that never failed to tickle him, the way Beckett steadfastly refused to order an egg roll for herself but then whenever he ordered one, she always stole half of his. He didn't remember when it had started but by now, it was something of a running joke between them and he'd long ago stopped suggesting that she order her own egg roll. At this point, he rather thought he would be disappointed if she ever did order her own egg roll and stopped stealing half of his.)

He put away the leftovers and then returned to find that Kate had moved, stretched out to lie down on the couch. His eyes automatically appreciated the sight of her long, lithe body stretched out so comfortably on his couch, thrilling at how very much at home she looked. She gave him a small, slight smile and lifted her head and he returned the smile as he settled onto the couch so she could pillow her head on his thigh.

His fingers sifted idly through the soft strands of her hair spread out across his thighs.

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered closed as her breathing slowed, deepened. She dozed and he tried not to shift or move or do anything that might possibly disturb her in any way. He knew all too well how little sleep she'd gotten in the last night, knew she was exhausted. And even if he hadn't known how little sleep she'd gotten, he could recognize her tells, the little signs of fatigue. He could see it in the way she blinked more frequently, see it in the way she occasionally rubbed her hand down her face, see it in her somewhat-slowed actions, just a fraction less brisk than was normal for his capable wife.

She dozed and he watched her sleep, as he loved to do. She teased him about his creepy staring but he knew because he'd caught her doing it, that she liked to watch him sleep too. (And she tended to have more chances to watch him sleep because, unlike him, she was a morning person, her body automatically waking her up without fail by 7 a.m. at the latest, and usually earlier than that, even without her having set an alarm.)

Besides, he reasoned—and as he'd told her a couple times—it really wasn't his fault for staring. There was no possible other response since she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen; his eyes simply couldn't help it. (She'd laughed at him and teased him that he sounded like the Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, who had big eyes "all the better to see you with." He'd waggled his eyebrows at her in an exaggerated leer as he responded that he did love to taste her.)

His gorgeous Kate.

He abruptly remembered the first time he and Kate had talked to Dr. Nieman, the way Nieman had complimented Kate on her perfect features—and what Kate had told him about Nieman's plan to steal Kate's face.

He felt a renewed spurt of rage at Tyson and Nieman, of fear at what it would have been like if Nieman had succeeded (he remembered what it had done to Lanie and Espo to see their look-alikes), of heart-stopping gratitude that Kate had had the fortitude and the courage to save herself. His fingers that had still been loosely tangled in her hair abruptly tightened and she blinked her eyes open.

"Castle," she mumbled, a little sleepily, and then again, sharper, as she fully awoke. "Castle, what's wrong?"

He knew it was irrational of him but he felt as if his admiration of Kate's beauty was tainted somehow, as if the fact that he loved every line and curve and plane of Kate's face gave him something in common with Nieman. He touched his hand to her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Kate," he almost choked, suddenly desperate to assure her—and himself—"you know I'd love you no matter what you look like, right? It's not only your looks that I'm in love with. You know that, right?" He loved all of her, every facet of her fascinating, challenging, maddening personality.

"Castle." She stopped his words by touching her finger to his lips even as she sat up. "Of course I know that." She flattened her palm gently against his cheek. "If I'd thought you were so shallow to only care about my looks, I would never have fallen in love with you."

He nodded a little jerkily, bringing up his own hand to cover hers and keeping it against his cheek. "I just… needed to make sure. I know I talk about your hotness a lot and after… I needed to make sure you know…"

"Rick." She leaned forward and kissed him softly, lingeringly. "It's not the same thing at all. Nieman wanted my face for her twisted purposes but she looked at me clinically; I wasn't a person to her at all. When you look at me, I know you don't only see my face; you also see my heart. You look at me as if I'm extraordinary."

"You are extraordinary."

She gave him what he thought of as her soft Kate smile, the one where her heart shone out of her eyes, the one he only ever saw her use when she was speaking about her mother or her father and now, at certain moments, when she looked at him. "That's because you see me that way."

_Oh Kate… _He swallowed back the lump of emotion in his throat and managed to say, "I see you as you are."

She shook her head a little. "No, Rick. You see me as the person I _want_ to be."

God, he loved her. It was exhilarating and humbling and a little terrifying to think that Kate, who was the most amazing and challenging person he'd ever met, felt that he, with all his own issues and flaws, made her better. He really had no words and all he could do was draw her closer so he could kiss her.

She slid her arms around his neck, fitting against him as she always did.

One kiss spun out into two kisses, three, four… and he stopped counting, only gave himself up to what was undoubtedly his favorite pastime, kissing Kate. Lips, tongues, breath, all mingled as they kissed, went on kissing. In unspoken understanding, neither tried to shift the kissing into anything more, kept their hands relatively still, just kissed for the sake of it.

He soaked in the so-familiar feel of her against him, in his arms, the warmth of her, the taste of her, and felt the remaining jagged edges of his terror and anger over the last few days begin to even out.

The quiet—but still rather jarring, considering the peace that had settled over the room—sound of the door being unlocked had them breaking apart, Castle abruptly remembering that Alexis and his mother were due to return home.

He stood up, his arms automatically opening in preparation for Alexis's hug, only to find himself watching as, for the first time, his daughter practically flung herself not into his arms but into someone else's—Kate's.

"Kate, you're okay!"

He felt his mother hug him and returned her embrace a little distractedly, his eyes fixed on Alexis and Kate, who had closed her arms around Alexis and was smiling softly as she whispered reassurances to Alexis.

His daughter and his wife, the two people he loved most in the world.

He tore his gaze away as he felt his mother's hand against his cheek in one of her occasional loving gestures and met his mother's eyes.

"Richard, you look terrible," his mother told him.

He managed a small smile at this. "Thank you, Mother, you flatter me."

His mother waved her free hand. "Pfft, flattery is for strangers. I'm your mother so I can say whatever I like and you look as if you haven't slept in days."

His smile turned rather wry. "I haven't."

His mother's expression became grave and she glanced at Alexis before lowering her voice. "But Richard, is it over now, for good, with this serial killer who's targeted you and Katherine?"

He met his mother's eyes, his smile fading, as he remembered that his mother knew, much more than Alexis did, about Tyson; he had briefly explained it to his mother after Tyson had framed him for Tessa's murder a couple years ago.

"Yes, it's over," he answered briefly, also keeping his voice soft. "He's dead."

"So you and Katherine are safe now."

As safe as they could be with Kate's job being what it was but he didn't say that aloud, only repeated, "It's over."

"Good."

His mother gave him a small smile and a rather brisk pat of his cheek before she turned away.

"Katherine, darling, I'm so glad you're all right."

As if that was her cue, Alexis managed a quick grin at Kate. "Me too," she added and then she stood up and took the necessary couple steps to throw herself at him.

"Hi, Dad," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

He closed his arms around her in the sort of hug a person reserved for the dearest and most precious thing the world held for him, realizing as he did so just how much he'd needed this. Hugging Alexis always lifted his spirits and after the last couple days, he needed to hold his daughter, know that she was home and safe. He pressed a kiss against her hair before he joked, "I was wondering when you were going to notice me."

Alexis nudged his arm a little reproachfully. "Dad."

He drew back to meet Alexis's eyes, sobering. "How are you, pumpkin?"

"Better," she answered with her characteristic thoughtfulness. "I was worried about Kate and you but now, I'm… better, glad to be home."

She fixed him with one of her direct looks. "Are _you_ okay, Dad? You look more exhausted than Kate does."

He gave Alexis a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, sweetie. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

Alexis didn't look entirely satisfied. "Really? Because you looked really… bad when you sent us away and you wouldn't have sent us all the way to Paris if it wasn't something really seriously dangerous and I just…"

"Ssh, Alexis," he interrupted her, cutting off her flow of distressed words, "it's all over now, I promise. Kate and I are both fine. Nothing's going to happen to us." He tugged Alexis in for another hug. "It's over now, pumpkin," he whispered again in her ear.

She hugged him back, nodding just once against his shoulder. "Okay."

He led Alexis over to the couch, sitting down and tugging Alexis down so she was sitting between him and Kate, and slung his arm around Alexis's shoulders.

His mother paused in recounting a story from their whirlwind trip to Kate to give him a quick smile. "And of course once we knew you and Richard were all right, we had to take advantage of the trip to do some shopping. Why, it would almost be a crime to be in Paris, the heart of fashion, and not shop."

Kate laughed a little and he let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "All right, Mother, just how much of a dent did you put into my credit cards so I know what to expect when next month's statements come in?"

"Oh, hardly anything at all, really, darling," his mother responded with another of her characteristic gestures.

"Hardly anything," he repeated skeptically. "So I suppose the two new suitcases you both brought back are empty?"

"Well… they're not entirely full," his mother returned.

Kate laughed and he felt her fingers tangle with his briefly.

"Don't be stingy, Castle," Kate teased before turning to his mother. "Don't listen to him, Martha. Come and show me what you and Alexis bought."

"Gladly, Katherine Come along, Alexis. You simply must show Katherine that darling little dress you bought."

With that, his mother, his daughter, and his wife were off, going upstairs with the suitcases in a bustle of feminine chatter—mostly by his mother, admittedly—leaving him alone on the couch.

Halfway up the stairs, Kate threw him a glance of affectionate amusement and understanding that looked remarkably like the looks Alexis occasionally gave him when Hurricane Martha was in full spate and he smiled back, his heart warming inside his chest. He adored the way Kate loved his mother and Alexis, loved the way she'd become part of his family.

Castle settled back on the couch, his head falling back, his eyes drifting closed as he listened to the muffled sounds of voices and laughter from upstairs. The sound of his family—safe and happy and together again.

And he smiled. He was better than fine; he was a lucky, lucky man. He was home with his family, the people he loved most in the world, and that was all he would ever want or need.

_~The End (For real this time.)~ _

_A/N 2: I loved the indication from the beginning of 7x14 "Resurrection" that Kate and Alexis have gotten closer so I wanted to show that again. Also, Martha insisted on making an appearance in this fic so I gave in. _

_As always, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think! _


End file.
